


Fetish

by babyrubysoho



Category: the GazettE
Genre: M/M, Ruki has hot lips, This fic goes nowhere, Uruha is a creeper
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-04-27
Updated: 2006-04-27
Packaged: 2018-06-08 12:26:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6854584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/babyrubysoho/pseuds/babyrubysoho
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A drabble I wrote years ago after first seeing the "Anata no Tame no Kono Inochi" PV. Basically, Ruki has hot lips and Uruha likes that very much. Nothing further happens.</p>
<p>*Note: I am currently transferring 12 years’ worth of my fic from various murky corners of the Net to AO3. So if this looks familiar, that’s probably why. Either that or I’m just appallingly unoriginal…*</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fetish

FETISH: “ _An object of unreasonably excessive attention or reverence; An abnormally obsessive preoccupation or attachment_.”  
  
  
It took me quite some while to figure out just what it meant.  
  
The first time I ever felt connected to such a word: I remember Reita catching me for the fifth time applying our singer’s lipstick for him; he grinned and said  
  
“Again? You got some kind of _fetish_ for Max Factor?”  
  
  
Puzzlement. I always thought the word meant, you know, ‘kink’: black vinyl and ropes. I didn’t get it.  
  
It wasn’t until much later that I discovered the crucial conjunction he’d omitted: one little word: ‘a’.  
A fetish. A fetish. Looking up the definition, those powerful words rose up at me:  
  
_reverence - abnormal - attachment - obsession_  
  
I met them with a kind of wonder. They gave shape to me.  
  
I understand now. I say the words in my head, afraid of what might happen if I voice them aloud:  
  
  
I have a fetish.  
  
  
I shiver and smile at the same time.  
It sounds foreign, voluptuous, exotic. I try it with his familiar name.  
  
A fetish. Ruki. Ruki, a fetish.  
  
Ruki, my fetish.  
  
The sounds connect perfectly, falling into place with sublime logic. I spend some time running them through my head: the short, sharp, stark syllables of his name overridden by this new, rolling, lush word that encapsulates everything that he is so perfectly.  
  
Am I the only one thinking about this? As I think, I watch him. I can almost see the word wrap itself insidiously around him like clinging smoke.  
  
His small figure is perfect, gently curving under milk skin; no angles on him anywhere from almond fingernails to the round silver-filled holes in his ears, from beautiful multi-hued eyes to cinnamon eyebrows, delicate and arched as a butterfly’s feelers.  
  
All lovely. But still, nothing but a pleasant backdrop to the object of my reverence, my abnormal attachment, my obsession.  
  
Ruki’s mouth. A fetish. For me, _the_ fetish.  
  
Even the thought of the word makes me tremble.  
The one thing I saw when I first met him and then dismissed for as long as I could.  
  
Which was not long. Soon I was drawn beyond my control, without knowing the name for this utterly consuming fixation.  
  
A fetish. It is. It is. I watch him now constantly, when he speaks and when he is silent. But I barely see the rest of him anymore.  
The saying that a person’s soul is in the eyes: it’s a lie.  
  
Ruki’s soul lives in the curve of his mouth, it shows itself in every tiny movement:  
When he gasps for breath mid-song, white teeth barely gleaming beneath petal lips, dark flowers in full blossom.  
When it curls into a smile, tapering wantonly to delicate upward curves at the corners, and looks so wicked it could have been the gift of a demon.  
When it opens and his small pink tongue flicks slowly and unconsciously across the smooth, rich expanse of the lower lip.  
When it is closed and serious, thoughtful but never motionless, the perfect arch of the upper lip making me weak with desire.  
  
The last as it is now.  
  
I stare, not even wanting to blink for fear of missing one of these tiny movements.  
  
Today his mouth is painted in the deepest red, so dark it could be black but fading in the middle to show a tantalising glimpse of pink flesh, and this nakedness bared amid the lush darkness makes me almost dizzy with guilty arousal.  
  
It moves as I watch. I think he is speaking. It must be to me as we are alone here; but I can’t hear what he’s saying, transfixed by the changing shape of that pure, malleable flesh under its paint.  
  
I see a small, sharp canine peek out and bite down nervously on the plump bottom lip, digging deep into soft skin and twisting it to a new and exciting shape, asymmetrical and mesmerising.  
  
My breathing is accelerating. I wonder if he notices.  
I force my eyes to close for a second.  
  
I have touched Ruki’s mouth six times. Four times with a brush and twice with my fingers, once with lipstick and once without. I run those two moments over in my head again and again, letting the memory excite me when I’m alone and can give full voice to my obsession.  
His lips are smooth, pliant. The first time, the plum colour stained my fingers. He smiled at that and I had to leave the room to collect myself. The second time they were clean, naked, it felt like the most intimate thing I could ever do. His mouth shivered, just a little. He was unsure, the language of it so easy for me to read in that touch. He is unsure now.  
  
I exhale shakily and open my eyes. If I listen carefully I can hear his own breath, flowing from between perfect lips gently.  
  
I wonder for a minute what it would be like to see those lips stained truly red; if he were to sink those little teeth into skin, maybe my skin, his mouth pressed in a hungry kiss against my throat, painted crimson and gleaming from the contact.  
  
The impossible dream. I shouldn’t be so fantastical.  
  
  
Still. I wonder how far I can push him. Now that we are here, just the two of us.  
I feel myself stand, and in that action I catch a glimpse of the whole of him, backed against the wall nervously, sweet white arms tensed and dark-lashed eyes staring into my face earnestly.  
  
Then I move close to him, close enough to see every little idiosyncrasy of his mouth, which moves in speech once more and binds my gaze irretrievably to its giddyingly sensual contours.  
  
I dimly sense my hands on his skin; perhaps his arms, perhaps his neck, I can’t tell, they are outside my field of vision. His lips tremble slightly beneath my stare. I have only seen him cry once, and I particularly remember this tremor in his mouth, and how I dreamt of that movement for weeks afterwards, dreams that woke me and left me aroused, alone in the dark.  
  
I don’t want him to cry. Not now, at least.  
  
I reach out soothingly and stroke the lower lip with a feather-light touch, revelling in its cool, silky feel beneath my fingertips.  
  
No movement. If it weren’t for the way the flesh dipped under my touch I would think he were made of pale stone.  
  
It’s coming, then. The culminating moment of my life.  
  
Eyes glazed, I lean down slowly, and I touch it, finally, my fetish, my mouth to his, as gradually as I can and I feel faint as I increase the pressure and all the sensations and textures hit me: the small dip in the bottom lip, the faintly bitter taste and slickness of paint passing to the slight roughness of bare skin in the centre, the yielding roundness of its shape. Scarcely thinking, I flicker the tip of my tongue over the inner edge where his lips meet, nudging them apart, and finally I taste him, my pure Ruki, and it overwhelms me.  
  
I break away from it, I have to; this pleasure is so intense I think it could kill me.  
  
For a full minute I try to collect my thoughts, and there is no reaction.  
  
Slowly. Second by second, my fetish begins to move, and for a moment I can’t read it at all.  
It curves upwards and I recognise it. The smile that is a baffling mixture of sweetness and evil. The pink tongue slips out and licks at the dark bottom lip thoughtfully. I gaze at it.  
  
And in that smile I read fulfilment and satiation, I sense a hundred more occasions to encounter teeth and tongue and skin and make-up, to feel myself all the different shapes and emotions, to know him. Because his soul really is there, and that smile tells me it is mine.  
  
  
Here is my Ruki. A fetish.  
  
  
And my fetish moves and I can hear at last, the only sound that is important pronounced from those lips:  
  
  
“ _Uruha_ ”.


End file.
